Then Tron is stepping into the middle of the road, holding an open umbrella. She directs us to a reserved parking space between patent-leather-black Secret Service Cadillac Escalades. Removing a traffic cone, she steps out of the way. Benton backs into the space, turning off the engine, and collecting our belongings, we climb out.
“Welcome.” Tron cheerfully hands us the umbrella, and one wouldn’t guess she’s a Secret Service counterterrorism expert permanently on loan to the CIA, among other things.
She could pass for a CEO or television news correspondent. A pretty, wholesome-looking professional in her forties, she has a contagious smile, her dark hair tucked behind her ears.
“How was the drive in this thing?” She makes a big production of giving Benton’s Tesla the once-over, as if she’s never seen it before. “Did you have to stop and plug it in somewhere?”
“We just barely made it,” he deadpans.
“Can it do over fifty?”
“Almost.” He goes along with her teasing, and she seems harmless enough.
That’s until you look closely, noticing her powerful hands with their short nails, her muscularity beneath her simple black suit and open-collar white shirt. Her loafers would do fine in a foot pursuit, and I’ve never known her to wear jewelry or other accessories that might get in the way or be used against her.
Coatless, she likely was inside the White House until the moment we arrived, monitoring security live feeds from surveillance cameras, many of them disguised. Her gun is out of sight, only her lapel pin hinting who she is, assuming you know what you’re looking at.
“I’m glad to see you in one piece. That must have been unbelievably scary,” she says to me as Benton locks the doors. “And by the way”—she directs this to him—“I think your car is pretty safe here.”
“I would hope that’s true.” He pockets the key.
We walk away from his black SUV parked in a long row of government vehicles, the rain quietly pattering our umbrella.
“Well, thankfully things weren’t a whole lot worse.” Tron gets down to business, saying this to me, and I sense what’s coming. “I mean what kind of coward are we talking about? It could have been anybody who got killed.”
Clearly, she knows about the careless thing I did. It’s not my imagination. She’s aware of what I’ve been through.
“Yes, it could have been much worse,” I admit. “I was very lucky, everyone was lucky.” It sounds trite as I hear myself.
“How are you feeling?” She’s not asking to be nice.
What she’s really doing is making sure I’m up to whatever must be expected, as if I’m about to walk onto center court or enter the boxing ring. I reply that I’m fine, maybe not completely back to normal, maybe not quite as energetic as I’d like. While Benton continues acting as if he has no idea why we’re here, and I don’t believe it for a second.
“The timing is never good when horrible things happen,” Tron replies to my growing uneasiness. “But it would be a major problem if you weren’t available, and we sure appreciate you being here to help out with this situation.”
I don’t know what situation she’s talking about. Only that before now I’ve had no reason to assume I’m a major player in whatever has unfolded that demands Benton’s and my presence. I glance up at him, both of us holding the umbrella as we walk, his hand warm against mine, his face unreadable.
The Secret Service knows about the poisoned wine. But that’s not why I’m at the White House. I’ve been summoned in spite of it and any residual ill effects I might be suffering, and Benton doesn’t say a word. It’s not up to him to inform me about what’s really happening, and it goes with the turf.
We’ve been together a long time, and I’m used to being in the dark. Out of necessity so is he when I can’t tell him everything, the two of us having more noncommunications than any couple I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t find it frustrating when he shuts me out. Especially now.
“How did you hear about the wine I carried home from Lyon?” I ask Tron since my husband’s not going to tell me.
“Interpol.” She leads us along in the spitting rain, the White House complex barely a block ahead.
The road is crowded with parked vehicles and big storage pods. American flags flutter from iron lampposts, uniformed guards on the prowl with their arsenals as trees drip, the grounds winter-drab and flowerless. I’m not seeing the usual mobs of tourists, mostly people in conservative business dress under their umbrellas.